Perceptions
by Lania
Summary: This is a true story about a suicide, and it's in this category because the author would not be here unless Misty showed up with her books. Please R/R
1. Unedited Original

A/N: Hi all! This is going to be an explanation of this piece. To warn you, it has nothing to do with Valdemar. This is more of a realization what Misty with her Vanyel books helped me overcome. Every part of this is true, except for the actual suicide, because I'm here writing this. I'm sorry to waste space with this, but if it weren't for Misty, I would not be here today. Oh, and all the names had been changed because I wanted to submit it to a school magazine, but then decided not to.  
  
Dedicated to Mimi, who helped me overcome this demon and introduced Misty to me.  
  
1 Perceptions  
  
It is a sunny Monday afternoon. I sit on the kitchen floor with a knife in my hand. "It's a sharp knife, I think." Nevertheless, I decide to see how sharp it is. I run my finger slowly along its edge. A ruby drop of blood appears on my thumb. It grows and finally falls on the floor. A teardrop slowly glides down my cheek and the force of gravity pulls it down to the ground. It mixes with the blood that is already there. The blood is no longer red; it is slightly pink. My vision becomes blurred. I cannot see anything anymore. More tears glide along my cheek, one following the other. I slide my finger along the blade again; more blood comes out. I do not feel the pain. The pain of a broken heart is greater than that of the bleeding finger. I watch the bleeding stop slowly. I watch them mix with my tears. I stare at the swirls and they take me back to the first thing that I remember.  
  
The first thing that I remember. I remember waking up in my bed. I remember not understanding the big brown shape next to me; and I remember realizing that it was a teddy bear. My first stuffed animal. I remember my grandma, smiling at my surprised and pleased expression. I remember it being my third birthday.  
  
My memory goes on. I remember my first and best friend: Kirk, who is exactly two months younger than I am. I remember walking, playing and laughing with him. I remember feeling happy. It seems so long ago.  
  
I remember my first day of school. I felt all alone. Kirk's parents chose a different school for him. But he was the only friend I had. I thought only of him. He was my other half. I gave my name reluctantly, and only when I was asked. I remember trying to enjoy my first day of this "new life"; I remember hating it.  
  
My parents picked me up. They were still together; they still loved each other. They had this dark blue plate; in gold, words "Until death" were engraved in it. They were both happy; they still cared for their little girl. We went for ice cream. I remember I ordered cherry-vanilla – my favorite. When I came home, I immediately called Kirk and we talked for hours. We promised to stay friends forever.  
  
My memory jumps to … Sunday. The peaceful atmosphere of our house was shattered by the fight between my parents. My mother, tears in her eyes, was yelling at my father. My father, gesticulating madly, was yelling back at my mother. I, standing between them, was trying to get them to stop this madness, to apologize to each other. Thinking that it would help, I grabbed the blue plate of the shelf. I yelled with all the pain, all the anguish, "Remember this? What are you doing? Why are you fighting?"  
  
Both of them stopped the fighting. I never had spoken out like that. Never in my whole life. My father calmly came up to me and took the plate carefully from my hands. Then he returned to his spot. He looked at it. He shook his head, and he released it from his hand. The plate hit the floor. It shattered into million pieces. I screamed out. My mother looked at me and said, "Go to your room. Now."  
  
I looked at them both. I turned on my heel and left the living room, slamming each door that I passed by. I went to my room, threw myself on the bed, and cried myself to sleep. Tears. That is what I can remember for most of my life.  
  
Suddenly I come back to today. I look at the floor; there is a lot of pinkish liquid on it. I am still bleeding, probably because I kept sliding my thumb along the blade the whole time. I glance at my watch. It is 4:45 PM. I glance at the knife; it is covered in blood, but somehow it does not bother me. The sight of blood used to make me sick every time. It does not anymore. I get up. I throw the knife into the sink and turn on the water. I wrap my injured thumb in a piece of bandage. The cut is too big to be covered just with a Band-Aid. I wash the knife. The blood comes off so easily. I take a paper towel and wipe the puddle of blood and tears with it. There is no trace of what I had done except for my injured finger. Somehow, I doubt that my parents will notice it. I look at the shelf where the plate has been. My mother had picked up all the pieces of it from the floor and she put them into a Ziploc bag. I take the Ziploc bag off the shelf.  
  
I am in my room now. I take the bag and a tube of Krazy Glue, and tape them to a piece of paper. I write three words on it: "Figure it out!" I take the piece of paper and I tape it to the outside of my door. I slam the door shut, and turn on my music; I just put my favorite song on repeat. It is so depressing and yet hopeful at the same time. I let myself get lost in the music, hoping that the pain I fell will go away.  
  
I hear the apartment door open and then close. My mother is home. She knocks on my door; I pretend not to hear. She opens the door and asks what is the matter with me; I simply point at the sign. She glances at it, tells me something about my misunderstanding of the situation, and then closes the door. Why am I always the one who does not understand? I am fifteen years old, and I lived with them all my life. Would I not come to understand them after all these years? I glance at my wrapped finger and smile to myself. I continue with my homework.  
  
The apartment door opens and closes again. My father is home. I fight the urge to run and give him a hug. I tried that yesterday night. He pushed me away. I hear him approach my door. I hear his slight "pondering" sound. He always makes a sound when he thinks. I hear him walk away from my door. I know that he is in the study, and my mother is probably in her room. I open the door quietly. As I had predicted. I make a dash for the kitchen. I take a bagel, some cream cheese, and three strawberries. I run back to my safe haven. I close the door and quietly eat my dinner in solitude.  
  
***  
  
Tuesday afternoon. I sit on the floor and run my pointer along the blade of the same knife. Same blood runs down. I turn back to my memories.  
  
I remember Kirk. We were never anything more than friends; I always thought that it was because our friendship was very strong. We were having a sleepover at his house. It was not all that long ago, but I cannot recall when exactly. I was lying on the bed with the blankets up to my ears. It was freezing. All the lights were off, but I could still see his hazel eyes across from me. He was looking at the floor. We have not spoken ever since I made him leave the room so that I would be able to change. He walked in and turned off the lights. Then he got into his bed, and started staring at the floor. I could not bear the silence any longer, and asked what happened. Kirk looked at me. His eyes were bottomless. I was falling down the endless hazel tunnel, which brought to the black hole of despair. I did not dare fall down that black hole, fearing that I would never return. I repeated my question; my eyes never left his. Kirk stood up and moved across the room; he sat on the corner of my bed. We were still looking into each other's eyes searchingly. He finally breaks the silence.  
  
"Hey," he says.  
  
"Hey," I say. His hand is on my cheek. His other hand is twirling one strand of my hair.  
  
"Laura, whatever happens and whenever, we'll always stay friends, right?" There was a slight trace of sadness in his voice.  
  
"Kirk, oh dear God, of course we'll stay friends. I thought we talked about this a long time ago. Why do you doubt our vow?"  
  
"It's because I feel that as we are growing, we are growing apart. I don't want to lose you. Laura, you are my friend; I am afraid to lose you. Afraid, selfishly, only for myself."  
  
I take his hand off my cheek and hold it with both of my own. "Kirk, you will never lose me. Even if you try to."  
  
He smiles. I feel the tension in his body relax. I look into his eyes. They are full of hope. Despair is gone. Love and friendship are back.  
  
We talked for the whole night.  
  
I drop the knife into the puddle of blood. I bandage my finger quickly; I wipe the blood from the floor with a white paper towel. I quickly rinse the knife. And only then, when all the proofs of what I was doing are gone, I sprint to my room and pick up the telephone. I dial Kirk's phone number. His mother picks up. "Hi, may I speak to Kirk?"  
  
"One second…"  
  
I hear her call Kirk, and he picks up the phone. "Hello?" he says in his deep silky voice.  
  
"Kirk, I have to talk to you. And this is not a phone conversation," I blurt out.  
  
"Laura? What is it? What's wrong?" his voice is trembling.  
  
"Kirk, please. Can I come over? I really need to," my voice breaks. I know that if I continue speaking, I will start to cry. I try to get myself under control. I cannot. I cannot control anything anymore. I am already dead. This is not I, talking to Kirk. It is somebody else. I do not know who or what, but it is not I. I would never lose control. I never yet did.  
  
"Oh, gods! Laura, are you okay? Come over as soon as you can. Are your parents there? Leave them a note! Come over right away! Just don't do anything stupid, okay?" I can feel that he is anxious. I don't know what I should do. My arm slowly but surely hangs up on Kirk. My mind and soul scream. I order my feet to go to my room, but they take me to the kitchen. I order my hands to stop, but they take the knife. My mind and soul are in agony. I order my body to stop, but it takes the knife and slowly, but surely runs it across the left wrist. My mind is not yet giving up. It orders my hands to stop and drop the knife. It succeeds for a second. My hands stop moving. But to my horror, a moment later, the left hand takes the knife and cuts my right wrist. My mind screams. There is a pool of blood on the floor. My mind tries once again to stop my hands, but it is too late. My mind is weak. The blood that supplied life to my body and my mind is pouring from my mutilated wrists. My legs give way. I collapse into the blood. My mind is slowly dying; yet my soul feels relieved. I slowly slip into darkness. Just before, I remember a glimpse of my childhood: Kirk and I, my parents and his parents, on a roller coaster ride. Then I am swallowed by the darkness forever.  
  
***  
  
I come home from work. I want to talk to Laura. I call her name. Nobody answers. I look into her room, yet she is not there. I decide that she might have left, and I direct my steps into the kitchen. I open the kitchen door, and freeze. Laura lies there in a pool of her blood. My body convulses in an uncontrolled motion. I turn her over. I rip some fabric off my shirt and tie them above the gashes. But, oh Laura, she is so cold. She is dying. I run to the phone and dial 911. I tell them the address. Then I go back into the kitchen. I wrap my body around Laura's, hoping that my love and warmth will keep her in this world. The ambulance arrives. The doctor makes her way to Laura. I step aside. She looks at Laura, and orders her to be taken to the hospital. Two nurses come and put her in the truck. I ask if there is any hope left. The doctor says that there is almost no human way to make Laura come back to life. I beg her to do anything she can to save my daughter. My only daughter. My only love. The doctor just nods, and the truck moves off. We get quickly to the hospital. They take Laura to the emergency room. I was told to wait in the emergency room. I call my husband, and then I start pacing the white hallway.  
  
***  
  
I hear Laura's phone drop. "Laura!" I call. No answer. I call again, hoping that my intuition is wrong. Silence again. I drop the receiver and sprint out of my room and out the door, yelling to my mom that something horrible is about to happen to Laura, and I got to save her. She yells, "Kirk, be careful!" I'm out of the door, sprinting down the stairs, not caring if I fall and break my leg. I catch a cab, and tell them Laura's address. Please be alive! Please, please, Laura, don't kill me!  
  
***  
  
My wife calls. She tells me through her tears what Laura's done. My first reaction is total unbelief. Laura was always a balanced child; she would never do such a thing. Unless, our fight made her mentally unbalanced. Or was it something else? I don't care, what it was, but I wish that she survives. She has to. If she doesn't… no, there'll be no such thing. She'll live. I start the car, and rush to the hospital.  
  
When I arrive, I see Emily pacing the hallway. I run to her and hug her. I missed her so much. We shouldn't have fought, that's obvious. I make a vow to myself to never fight again.  
  
***  
  
I don't know how to say it. I've been a doctor for ten years, and I still cannot deal with death. Especially in this case. The girl was so young. As I come out of the room, her parents turn to me with faint hope in their eyes. My words fail me. I simply shake my head. As I see the mother break down and the father, weeping, trying to comfort her, my heart aches. I turn my eyes away from them. I can't bear to see their pain.  
  
***  
  
I reach Laura's apartment. I knock on the door; no answer. Just the same haunted silence. I try the door; it's open. I enter. Nobody is home. I go to Laura's room. Somehow, it feels empty. I see Laura's favorite stuffed animal, a moose, on her bed. I take it and hug it, trying to inhale her scent. I remember trying to stop myself from falling in love with her; I remember failing. "I love Laura," I say to myself. I love her. I decide to wait, but I'm thirsty. I go into the kitchen, and my heart stops beating. The floor is covered in blood. Bright red blood… I remember falling backwards, away from the blood, trying to forget the frightening sight.  
  
***  
  
I come home with Dan. They made us leave the hospital after filling out paperwork. That's all we are to the government: a bunch of papers. This truth made me sick. Dan helped me to the car. He drove with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat. How well I know him! How much I love him! And Laura… I start to cry. She was so young…  
  
When we are home, I see Kirk lying on the floor with his arm around Moosey. I revive him. He looks at me with the hope, and I, like the doctor, shake my head. He breaks down crying on my shoulders. I try to comfort him, but I just start crying all over again. I don't feel Laura in my heart anymore; I just feel a coldness and a void. Dan comes up to me and I feel his arms on my shoulders, his tears in my hair. I don't know how long we stayed like this, but by the time we stopped crying, it was too late to let Kirk go home. He wanted to sleep in Laura's room. I let him. He took his usual bed, across from Laura's, and as we went to sleep, we heard him talking to the empty bed.  
  
***  
  
Time passed. They buried a young girl near me. I saw the mother cry; I saw the father break down and cry out to the heavens; I saw a boy stand near the grave muttering something I couldn't hear. In a week, the parents came back with a blue plate. They told her that they glued it and that everything was fine between them. They urged her to come back, already knowing that it will never happen. Then they put the plate on top of the mound of earth. They went away. A boy came back. He sat on me and confessed his love for her. He cried. He then kissed the earth and went away. I can keep their secrets. I am a graveyard bench, after all.  
  
A/N: Please do review. I would appreciate any criticism, but no flames. And please, if you are going to critique my piece, try not to be condescending. Thank you!  
  
~Lania 


	2. A Changed Story

A/N: Thank you all who have written reviews, those who have read the story. I was so touched by your comments… I do not know what to say. This is not a continuation. (I don't think I could write one.) This is just another edited version, different in so many ways from the original one. (I had to put more symbols in for it to be my English paper.) And for those who expressed their concerns about my present state, thank you but I'm fine now. This was written about 4 years ago when I wasn't. But thanks to certain people, I'm still here, still breathing and enjoying life. Once again, thank you for all your comments. Zhai 'helleva, Lania. 

Once again, to Mimi.

Perceptions 

            I sit on the white tiled kitchen floor in our small apartment in the middle of London. Sunlight lets itself in through the wide kitchen window and pools around me. A blade of a steel knife in my hand reflects it onto the white walls. _It's a sharp knife, I think. Nevertheless, I decide to see how sharp it is. I run my finger slowly along its glowing edge. A ruby drop of blood appears on my thumb. It grows and finally falls to the floor. A teardrop slowly glides down my cheek and the force of gravity pulls it to the ground to mix with the blood. My vision becomes blurred. The bloody blade melts into the sunlight. More tears glide along my cheek, one following the other, playing the never-ending game of tag. Blindly, I slide my finger along the blade again; more blood falls. I watch the red rivulet impassively. The bleeding stops gradually. I stare at the swirl of blood and tears, and they take me back to the first thing that I remember._

            I woke up in my small bed, and immediately perceived a large brown shape next to me. Upon further examination, I discerned four paws, two ears, two eyes, and a muzzle. I shrieked with delight and hugged the teddy bear. My grandma came up to me, wearing her charming smile, and pressed her warm lips to my forehead. It was my third birthday.

            For a moment, a blur of images passes by. Then it stops, showing to me my first and best friend: Kirk. He stood in front of me dressed in denim overalls and a red T-shirt. His hazel eyes, his wavy brown hair, his heart-shaped face…. Then he was running, letting his laughter follow him. I chased after him, my red dress flapping around my legs, but he was too fast. The next thing I knew, he was running back and we began the race again.

            The image swirls, and I am sucked into the whirlpool of my memories. At some point, I am thrown out of it, and I land in my school on my first day there. I see myself as I was ten years ago: a child in a brown dress, desperately alone. I was looking for Kirk, but he was not there. His parents chose a different school for him. Oh, Kirk, where were you? You, my partner in crime, my "laughing buddy," my friend. I continued to stand in the corner until the end of the school day.

            My parents picked me up. We went for ice cream to celebrate my first day of "maturity." I chose a seat in the sun. I ordered cherry-vanilla – my favorite. My parents ordered only one ice cream for both of them and shared it with laughter. They told me stories of their romantic wedding, of how they met, of how they fell in love. They had this dark blue plate with the words "Until death" engraved on it in gold. I smiled and laughed -- my "crystal" laugh, my grandma always called it. When I came home, I immediately called Kirk and we talked for hours. We promised to stay friends forever, swearing on our favorite stuffed animals.

            An invisible hand takes out the slide of this memory and replaces it with another that shows the picture of Sunday night two weeks ago. The peaceful atmosphere of our house was shattered by the fight between my parents. My mother, tears in her eyes, yelled at my father. My father, gesticulating madly, shouted back at her. I stood in between them and tried to get them to stop this madness by mumbling something, not daring to interfere. Thinking that it would help, I grabbed the blue plate off the shelf. The light from the black floor lamp shone onto the gold letters, making them glow in the semi-darkness of the living room. The next thing I knew, I yelled with all the pain, all the anguish that I felt, "Remember this? What are you doing? Why are you fighting?"

            Both of them stopped. My whole body began to tremble as the realization of what I had done hit me; I never spoke out like that. Never in my whole life. My father calmly came up to me and took the plate carefully from my shaking hands. Then he returned to his spot. He looked at the plate. He shook his head, letting some of his curly black hair fall onto his forehead, and he released the sacred plate from his hands. After a few agonizing seconds, the plate hit the floor. It shattered into millions of pieces. I screamed out, "No! No!"

My mother looked at me with her green eyes filled with sorrow and said in a shaking soprano voice, "Go to your room. Now."

            I looked at them both with disbelief in my tear-filled hazel eyes. I turned on my heel and left the living room, slamming every door that I passed by, still trembling. I finally reached my room, threw myself on the bed, which was covered with my favorite lilac comforter, and cried myself to sleep. Tears. The salty water that is supposed to signify grief…

            Suddenly I come back to today. I look at the floor; in a pool of sunlight, there is a puddle of blood and tears. My thumb is still bleeding because I kept sliding my thumb along the blade the whole time. I glance at my small watch. It is 4:45 PM. I look at the knife; the blade is covered in blood. My eyes do not avert themselves from the sight for the first time; usually they would hide themselves in the comforting darkness of my eyelids. I get up, using the white kitchen cabinet for support, leaving slight traces of red all over it. I throw the knife into the silver sink and turn on the water. I wrap my mutilated thumb in a piece of white cotton bandage around my deep red wound. I wash the knife. The blood comes off so easily; in less than a minute, the knife glows silver once again. I take a white paper towel, and wipe the kitchen cabinet and then the pinkish puddle. There is no trace of what I had done except for my injured finger. I doubt that my parents will notice it. I look at the shelf where the plate has been. My mother had picked up all the pieces of it from the floor and put them into a Ziploc bag. I take it off the shelf.

            I walk into my room now. I take the bag and a tube of Krazy Glue, and tape them to a piece of paper. I write three words with a magic marker on it: "Figure it out!" I take the piece of paper and tape it to the outside of my door. I slam the door shut, and turn on my music. I put my favorite song "Who Wants to Live Forever" on repeat. "Who wants to live forever, / When love must die?" I let myself get lost in the soft music, hoping that the pain I feel will go away.

            I hear the apartment door open and then close with a dull thud. My mother is home. She knocks on my door; I pretend not to hear. She opens the door and asks, "What's the matter with you, Lania?"

I simply point at the sign. She glances at it, tells me something about my misunderstanding of the situation, and then closes the door. Why am I always the one who does not understand? I am fifteen years old, and I lived with them all my life. Would I not come to understand them after all these years? I glance at my wrapped finger and smile to myself. I continue with my homework.

            The apartment door opens and closes once again. My father is home. I fight the urge to run and give him a hug. I tried that yesterday night. He pushed me away. I hear him approach my door. I hear his slight "pondering" sound, something between a mumble and a murmur. I hear him walk away from my door and lock himself in his wood-paneled study. My mother is probably in her room. I open the door quietly. _As I had predicted._ I make a dash for the kitchen. I take a bagel, some cream cheese, and three strawberries. I run back to my safe haven. I close the door to my dark room and quietly eat my dinner in solitude.

***

            Tuesday afternoon. It is still raining, just like the foreigners imagine London weather: gray and rainy. I sit on the same white tiled kitchen floor and run my pointer along the blade of the same knife. Same blood runs down from my finger. Same blood pools itself at my feet, only now there is no pool of sunlight; only the grey presence of clouds. A silver kettle is sitting on the stove. I might have turned on the flame under it. I turn back to my memories.

            I remember Kirk. We were never anything more than friends; I always thought that it was because our friendship was very strong. We were having a sleepover at his house. It was not all that long ago; I cannot recall when exactly. I was lying on the bed with the blankets up to my ears, still shivering because of the chill. All the lights were off; I could not see my hands, but I could see his hazel eyes across from me. He was looking at the floor. We have not spoken ever since I made him leave the room so that I would be able to change. After I opened the door, he walked in and turned off the lights. Then he got into his bed, and started staring at the floor. I could not bear the silence any longer, and asked "Kirk, what's wrong?"

Kirk looked at me. His eyes were bottomless. I was falling down the endless hazel tunnel, which brought to the black hole of despair. I did not dare fall down that black hole, fearing that I would never return. I repeated my question; my eyes never left his. Kirk stood up and moved across the room; he sat on the corner of my bed. We were still looking into each other's eyes searchingly. He finally broke the silence.

            "Hey," he said.

            "Hey," I said. His hand was on my cheek. His other hand was twirling a strand of my hair.

            "Lania, whatever happens and whenever, we'll always stay friends, right?" There was a slight trace of sadness in his voice.

            "Kirk, oh dear God, of course we'll stay friends. I thought we talked about this a long time ago. Why do you doubt our vow?"

            "It's because I feel that as we are growing up, we are also growing apart. I don't want to lose you. Lania, you are my friend; I am afraid to lose you. Afraid, selfishly, only for myself."

            I took his hand off my cheek and held it with both of my own. "Kirk, you will never lose me. Even if you try to."

            He smiled. I felt the tension in his body relax. I looked into his eyes. The hazel tunnels glowed with hope. Despair was gone. Love and friendship were back.

            We talked for the whole night.

            I drop the knife into the puddle of blood. I bandage my finger quickly; I wipe the blood from the floor with a white paper towel. I quickly rinse the knife. And only then, I sprint to my room and pick up the telephone. I dial Kirk's phone number. +44 021 – 7746. His mother picks up. "Hi, may I speak to Kirk?"

            "One second…" 

            I hear her call Kirk, and he picks up the phone. "Hello?" he says in his deep silky voice.

            "Kirk, I have to talk to you. As soon as possible," I blurt out.

            "Lania? What is it? What's wrong?" his voice is trembling.

            "Kirk, please. Can I come over? I really need to," my voice breaks. I know that if I continue speaking, I will start to cry. I try to get myself under control. I cannot. I cannot control anything anymore. I am already dead. This is not I, talking to Kirk. It is somebody else. I do not know who or what, but it is not I. I would never lose control. I never did.

            "Oh, gods! Lania, are you okay? Come over as soon as you can. Are your parents there? Leave them a note! Come over right away! Just don't do anything stupid, okay?" I can feel that he is anxious. I do not know what I should do. My arm slowly but surely hangs up on Kirk. My mind and soul scream. I order my feet to stop, but they take me to the kitchen. I order my hands to stop, but they take the knife. My mind and soul are in agony. I order my body to stop, but it takes the knife and slowly, but surely runs it across the left wrist. My mind is not yet giving up. It orders my hands to stop and drop the knife. It succeeds for a second. My hands stop moving, hesitating. But to my horror, a moment later, the left hand takes the knife and cuts my right wrist. My mind screams. There is now a pool of blood on the floor. It is raining outside. My mind tries once again to stop my hands, but it is too late. My mind is weak. The blood that supplied life is pouring from my mutilated wrists. My legs give way. I collapse into the red puddle. My mind is slowly dying; yet my soul feels relieved. I slowly slip into darkness. Just before, I remember a glimpse of my childhood: Kirk and I, my parents and his parents, on a roller coaster ride in Scotland, where we spent our summer when I was six. It is so bright and sunny. Then I am swallowed by the darkness forever.

***

I come home from work. I want to talk to Lania. I call her name. Nobody answers. The kettle is whistling with a dry sound, which indicates to my ear that there is no water left in it. "Damn it, Lania, the kettle's been whistling for half an hour! At least!" I think. I look into her room, yet she is not there. I decide that she might have left, and I direct my steps into the kitchen to turn off the stupid kettle. I open the kitchen door, and freeze. Lania lies there in a pool of her own blood. A pale glow of the moon is all around her, making the blood appear silver, rather than red. My body convulses in an uncontrolled motion. I turn her over. I rip some fabric off my shirt and tie them above the red gashes on her slender white wrists. But, oh Lania, she is so cold. She is dying. I run to the phone and dial the hospital's number. I tell them the address. Then I go back into the kitchen. I wrap my body around Lania's, hoping that my love and warmth will keep her in this world. The ambulance arrives. The doctor makes her way to Lania. I step aside. She looks at Lania, and orders her to be taken to the hospital. Two nurses come and put her in the truck. I ask if there is any hope left. The doctor says that there is almost no human way to make Lania come back to life. I beg her to do anything she can to save my daughter. My only daughter. My only love. The doctor just nods, and the truck moves off. I sit in the back of it holding Lania's hand, talking to her, praying to any god. We arrive quickly to the hospital. They take Lania to the emergency room. I was told to wait in the white hallway with fluorescent lights. I call my husband, and then I start pacing up and down, up and down...

***

            I hear Lania's phone drop. "Lania!" I yell. No answer. I call her name again and again, hoping that my intuition is wrong. Silence again. I drop the receiver and sprint out of my room and out the door, yelling to my mom that something horrible is about to happen to Lania, and I got to save her. She yells, "Kirk, be careful!" I am out of the door, sprinting down the stairs, not caring if I fall and break my leg or my neck. I catch a cab, and tell them Lania's address. Please be alive! Please, please, Lania, don't kill me!

***

            My wife calls. She tells me through her tears what Lania has done. "No… no," I keep repeating. "My sunflower," I called her. She has to live. She has to. She is too innocent, too perfect. If she died, it would be a… I sit in the car, driving without the head lights on. The moon illuminates my pass. I cannot think… I just follow the silver road. If she does not live… no, there'll be no such thing. She _will _live.

             When I arrive, I see Emily pacing the hallway. I run to her and hug her. I missed her so much. Her tears are permeating my shirt, touching my skin, making me pull her even closer to myself.

***

            I do not know how to say it. I have been a doctor for ten years, and I still cannot deal with death. Especially in this case. The girl was so young. As I come out of the room, her parents turn to me with faint hope in their tear-filled eyes. My words fail me. I simply shake my head. As I see the mother break down and the father, himself weeping, trying to comfort his wife, my heart aches. I turn my eyes away from them. I cannot bear to see pain.

***

            I reach Lania's apartment. I knock on the door; no answer. Just the same haunted silence. I try the door; it is open. I enter. Nobody is home. I go to Lania's room. Somehow, it feels more than just empty – it feels deserted. I see Lania's favorite stuffed animal, a moose, on her bed. I take it and hug it, trying to inhale her scent. I remember trying to stop myself from thinking of her as a girl; I remember failing. "I love Lania," I say to myself. I love her. I decide to wait, but I am thirsty. I go into the kitchen, turn on the light, and my heart stops beating. The floor is covered in blood. Bright red blood… I remember falling backwards, away from the blood, trying to forget the frightening sight.

***

            I come home with Dan. They made us leave the hospital after filling out paperwork under the cold glare of fluorescent lights. That is all we are to the government: a bunch of papers. They do not feel the pain of loss; they do not feel a cold void where love has been. Dan helped me to the car. He drove with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat. How well I know him! How much I love him! And Lania… I start to cry. She was so young…

            When we finally arrive home and come into our apartment, I see Kirk lying on the floor with his arm around Moosey. I revive him. He looks at me with hope, and I, like the doctor, shake my head. He breaks down crying on my shoulder, his slim body shuddering with sobs. I try to comfort him, but I start crying. I feel so cold, so cold. Dan comes up to me and I feel his strong arms on my shoulders, his tears in my hair. I do not know how long we stayed like this, but by the time we stopped crying, it was too late to let Kirk go home alone. He wanted to sleep in Lania's room. I let him. He took his usual bed, across from Lania's, and as we went to sleep, we heard him talking to the empty bed.

***

            Time passed. The sun warmed my granite seat. Mourners sat on me, and on the other graveyard benches, and rose, and moved on. On a bright day, they buried a young girl near me. I saw the mother cry. I saw the father fall to his knees and raise his voice to the heavens, begging the skies to return his child. I saw a boy stand near the grave muttering something I could not hear. In a week, the parents came back with a blue plate. They told her that they glued it and that everything was fine between them. They urged her to come back, already knowing that it would never happen. Then they put the plate on top of the fresh grave and left. The boy came back later that same day. He sat on me and confessed his love for her. He cried. He then kissed the mound of earth with his red lips and went away. I can keep their secrets.


End file.
